Shopping with Sherlock
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock's cupboard is barer than Old Mother Hubbard's, so Molly takes him shopping. It's amazing what goes on in the aisles of Tesco's! Sherlolly


The kitchen cupboard doors made hollow, echoing sounds as Molly Hooper slammed them closed on the vast emptiness which had, supposedly at some point in time, actually harbored edible substances. Fortunately, the empty pantry did not belong to her, but to one Sherlock Holmes, who sat starving, and complaining, in his sitting room. Molly had arrived early that Saturday morning, supposedly to help edit a paper on the deterioration of mold spores in a hot and dry climate. But she found herself instead listening to Sherlock Holmes's complaints of hunger, and finding nothing to satisfy him.

"Sherlock, how can you possibly live like this? Do you even know what a kitchen is for? There isn't a single edible thing in these cabinets! Nothing! Have you been shopping since John left?", she said with a rather disturbed giggle.

"I'm hungry, Molly. Let's order takeaway!" Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, managed to get out in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the rumbling in his stomach.

"You can't order takeaway for everything, Sherlock. It's breakfast time, and you don't even have so much as dry cereal," Molly said, disallowing the one box of Weetabix she had found in the dark recesses of a lower cabinet, and whose "use by" date had expired past almost two years previously. "Get dressed! I'm taking you shopping!"

"I hate shopping, Molly!"

"I know, Sherlock, but nonetheless, we're going to the shops. Put on your big boy panties, or whatever you call them, and let's go!" As the tall, slender man with the beautiful curls rose slowly, and grudgingly, from his chair, Molly flashed on a mental image of him in his "big boy panties", and nothing else. She immediately felt a bit guilty, but held on to this image until the man himself returned, fully clothed.

Molly led him down the stairs, on her way to the closest shop she knew of, when he stopped her in mid-stride. "We can't go to Mr. Chakraborty's place, Molly. Evidently, Mrs. Hudson broke his heart, or some other unmentionable organ, and she, and all who abide with her, are now persona non grata!"

Molly smoothly changed directions, saying, "Then Tesco's it is, alright?"

"It depends on who the manager on duty is, actually. I may have offended someone by referring to his facility as a 'dumping ground for over priced and under nutritional cattle fodder'…"

"Well, if there's any trouble, just let me do the talking." As an afterthought, she added, "Has Mrs. Hudson had any romantic dealings with the staff at this shop?"

"Since most of them are spotty faced adolescents young enough to be her grandsons, I do not believe so. Or, rather, I sincerely hope not!" Sherlock spoke with a smirk as he followed his pathologist down the Baker Street.

The detective reached for a shopping basket as they walked through the door, but Molly quickly pointed out that this trip would require a larger shopping trolley. She shoved one in his direction, and waited patiently for him to take the hint and follow her. They walked up and down the aisles, Molly filling the trolley with sliced luncheon meats, eggs, milk, two different kinds of cereals, sausages, some chicken and fish for the freezer, if she could persuade him to remove whatever experiment lurked there, and an assortment of microwaveable meals which should get him through the coming days. Sherlock, meanwhile, was busy tossing in crisps of varying varieties, an assortment of biscuits, packaged dessert cakes, and an entire cherry pie. Molly glanced at the trolley, and his slim physique, and wondered, not for the first time, how he did it. She supposed chasing bad guys and dodging bullets had something to do with it, as well as going without food entirely for days on end. No thank you, she thought, she'd rather be plump.

Molly, sensing this was an appropriate time, then broached the subject of his abject ignorance of any and all domestic chores. "Sherlock, I know you hate shopping, and cleaning, and doing laundry, but you have to learn to take care of yourself. You should have known that John wasn't going to be there forever. He has his own life now…"

"He still comes by with a care package from time to time, you know, Molly."

"But he shouldn't have to, you git! You're a grown man! How have you managed without him all this time?"

"Well, of course, you're discounting Mrs. Hudson…"

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson is an elderly woman with a gamey hip and a life of her own. She can't spend her golden years taking care of you when there are so many Mr. Chakraborty's out there to get to know."

"She likes taking care of me, Molly! I'm like the son she never had. Or wanted, come to think of it."

"You do know she reports your every move to your mother, don't you?"

"I know, Dr. Hooper. I once told her I was madly infatuated with a circus performer, and was considering joining him on his tour of Eastern Europe. My mother sent me a clown costume, and her congratulations on finding so suitable a partner. Mummy is not nearly so gullible as Mrs. H."

Molly couldn't help but laugh at the thought of Sherlock Holmes, his patrician nose covered by a bulbous red prosthetic, climbing awkwardly out of a mini-car. "God, I love your mother!" she said between her giggles.

"And she loves you, Dr. Hooper. Possibly because Mummy has a bit of an ego, and says you remind her of herself to a large extent."

"Imagine that! A Holmes, with an ego!" Molly shook her head as she continued down the aisle.

Sherlock was smiling gently, brushing off her concern. "There's nothing to worry about, Molly. I'm much too enamoured with myself to allow my lack of domesticity to seriously impact my well-being. And I have John, and Mrs. Hudson, and you…"

"That's my point, Sherlock. Sooner of later, John will stop delivering your 'care packages'. And Mrs. Hudson isn't getting any younger, you know. It's getting harder and harder for her to make those constant trips up and down the stairs. She should be conserving her strength for other, uh, endeavors. It's really not fair of you to rely on her for so much. And I won't be around forever. That leaves Mycroft to watch over you. Do you even want to consider that?"

Sherlock Holmes had stopped dead in his tracks, directly in front of a particularly enticing display of muffins and other pastries, but he was ignoring them all. What did she mean, she wouldn't be around forever?

"Molly, are you considering taking one of those job offers from outside London?", the detective asked, his calm voice belying his inner turmoil. She had had quite a few over the past several years, as her reputation had grown in her selected field of study. But it never occurred to him that she might actually consider one of them seriously.

"No, no. I'm very content at St. Bart's. I have a life, and friends, in London. I don't want to leave. As I said, I'm very...content."

Sherlock made a quick visit to his mind palace, only to open the door to Molly Hooper's vast room, and find it suddenly empty. Possibly, this was his own way of bringing the reality of a life without Molly Hooper to the forefront of his conscious mind. He was now lost in thought. She had said she was "content". Well, "content" was for cows! "Content" was for elderly widows looking forward to a reunion with their lost other halves in some imagined paradise to come! "Content" was for dull accountants in appropriate but unfulfilling jobs and marriages! "Content" was definitely not for Molly Hooper. Not clever, kind, bright, and beautiful Molly Hooper! She deserved to be happy. Gloriously, deliriously happy! And he suddenly decided that, faced with the possibility of seeing her forever being merely "content", he wanted, more than anything he had ever wanted before, including that rather delicious looking strawberry confection on the shelf in front of him, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life making her happy. Or at least trying to do so.

"Molly, have you ever considered marrying me?"

Molly Hooper slowly turned to face the man who had asked that rather surprising question. She studied his face carefully, for she was the only person on the face of the earth, outside of his immediate family, who could read the man who, at times, appeared to be carved out of stone. She looked for signs of teasing, of dishonesty, but could find none.

"Am I correct in assuming that you just proposed to me to guarantee that I would be there to shop, cook, clean, and generally look after you for the rest of your life?"

"Actually, Molly, it would be for the rest of your life, as, selfish as I may be, I could not possibly expect you to look after me after your demise. That is considering possibility that you may predecease me. It is a possibility, after all, although all indicators point to me shuffling off this mortal coil before you." He was beginning to lose his train of thought. "Oh, if I am to shuffle before you, you are, of course, free of all domestic obligations on my behalf!" He smiled at her, a bit proud of himself for offering this small concession.

"Sherlock, answer me!"

"As I said, Molly, I am a selfish man. And your assumptions, although they may be correct, are certainly not the only reasons…"

"What other reasons do you have, Mr. Holmes. I need to hear them. Now!"

Sherlock Holmes, great detective and lousy romantic, was looking downward and shuffling from side to side nervously. "Well, I find you rather attractive, Molly. I think we could have a more than satisfying sex life." He glanced at her to see if her was making any headway whatsoever.

"Good sex. Okay. And?"

"You are very intelligent, and I think our children would turn out well above average."

"Great kids. Check. Anything else you want to say, Sherlock?"

The detective knew he would have to say it. Molly was not going to let him off easily. But more importantly, he wanted to say it. He had denied it to himself for so long, that it felt like a weight bearing down on his chest, a weight of which he was now oh so eager to rid himself. He screwed up every bit of courage he could muster, looked her in the eye, and said, "I want you to be happy, Molly. Not just "content". I want to make you happy, or at least try to. Because I love you more than life itself, and the thought of a life without you terrifies me."

"Okay."

" 'Okay'? That's it?"

"I know you don't like public displays of affection, Sherlock…"

"Well, just this once, maybe…" he said, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her in close for the best kiss of her life. Bar none. They broke apart when they noticed the attention they had drawn, one middle-aged woman going so far as to instigate a round of applause. Sherlock, ever the drama queen, made a small bow before he hurried his pathologist to the checkout line.

As they unloaded their trolley, Molly's practical side returned as she placed box after bag of snacks, treats, and sweets on the conveyor belt. "Really, Sherlock. All this junk food can't possibly be good for you. The calories…"

"Don't worry, Molly. I'm sure we'll find some way to work it off once we're back at the flat," he said with a wink. And Molly blushed as red as the strawberry tart her now fiance had snuck into the cart, evidently while snogging her senseless in the pastry aisle!


End file.
